by Carolyne Lee, an Australian Francophile

One day last month I noticed a poster in the Metro with this intriguing title: Le mec de la tombe d’à cote.  On closer inspection, I saw that it was an advertisement for a play,  so when I returned to my apartment  I searched on TickeTac to find the dates and some details. It was playing at a small theatre in the 3rd. I bought tickets for myself and a friend, and then went in search of the book. My French is not yet quite reliable enough to allow me to follow a play with full comprehension, so I always try to read the text first. I’d just done this with Dis-leurs que la verite est belle, which had given me nearly 95% comprehension when I attended the play, although fabulous acting and crystalline enuncation from the actors had played a role in that too.

But I couldn’t find a copy of the play about the graveyard mec, and was told by my local bookshop L’arbre à lettres that it only existed in the form of a novel, originally Swedish by Katerina Mazetti,  translated into French by Lena Grumbach and Catherine Marcus, and only recently adapted into a stage play. The book (pictured above) looked as intriguing as the poster for the play, so I bought that and tried to read as much as I could in the two days left until the evening of the play.

Although it is a comedy of sorts, it also contains some important truths about relationships, especially when two people are from different worlds–in this case two different occupational worlds. A newly-widowed city librarian meets a farmer from the depths of the country in a city cemetery (the farmer’s mother has recently died). That’s as much of the plot as I’m prepared to give away at the moment. The play telescoped all of the action beautifully, and the half-dozen characters in the novel were pared down to the two protagonists, who were seamlessly converted into French characters complete with French names. The acting was perfect (in fact all of the acting I have seen in the French theatre has been perfect–from Fanny Ardent and Patrick Chesnais in various productions, through to all of the relative unknowns). The only downside for me was that for the sake of verisimilitude the character of the farmer had to speak in a rural and slightly uncouth accent which marred my understanding somewhat (when oh when does one get to the stage of fluency in a foreign language that enables one to understand bad enunciation and thick accents? Maybe never, as I’m not very good at that in English either).

After the play, which my friend A-M and I enjoyed enormously, I put the book aside, and have only just had the time to take it up again. What a delight it is to return to it, to discover the twists and turns of the relationship, but now with the pictures of the two characters in my mind–she so thin and pale and refined, and Jean the farmer so honest and straightforward, with thick black curly hair and stubble, his check shirts and overalls.

The insights I am discovering, about connecting the self with the other, are gently humbling.

The book can be bought from Amazon France for a good deal less than I paid for it, and they ship to Australia for a reasonable rate.

(by guest blogger Andrew McRae)

The night before this was taken, the crowd spilled out into the street from La Grille, as the French football team played its first match on the opening day of the World Cup. The French fans didn’t seem too downcast by the drawn result with Uruguay, but of course at that time they didn’t know what was in store for them. Later in the tournament, drinkers at La Grille were much more subdued – quietly angry, perhaps – as they watched the large TV in the bar.

La Place d’Aligre is in what used to be a working class district of Paris, a kilometre or so east of the Bastille, and although it is now quite trendy it still has some rough edges. These can be seen in the market space every day except Monday, when a lot of stalls selling mainly used clothing, books and bric-a-brac open up, the stock having been kept overnight locked in the numerous graffiti-covered vans that seem permanently parked around the perimeter of this circular Place. Numerous homeless men and boisterous alcoholics also emerge from who knows where, but seem to disappear again when the market closes at about 1300 hrs. For some reason undiscoverable to me, they liked to congregate below the overhang of the large apartment block in which I was staying. At the back against the red-roofed building and in Rue d’Aligre itself, a large fruit and vegetable market attracts buyers from a wide area. The large, squat building with the red roof is the site of the covered marché Beauvau-Saint Antoine, which is a bit more expensive but contains some excellent charcuteries and cheese shops.

On the horizon, of course, is the Eiffel Tower, and closer the parish church of Saint-Antoine des Quinze-Vingts, against the sunset and the stormy clouds.

By guest blogger, photographer Macondo (Andrew McRae)

The shadows lengthen in rue des Barres, looking away from the Seine River on the corner of rue de l’Hotel de Ville. A young man makes his way between the outdoor cafe tables, a student heading home perhaps. I’ve always liked the view up this lane which leads to rue Francois Miron, the Paris Mairie and the small Place Baudoyer where the Farmer’s Market is still open on this Wednesday afternoon. Just out of sight to the right of the bicycle is the Chez Julien restaurant, which features in one of my earlier photos. Part of the church of St-Gervais can be seen on the left; the shadow in the foreground has been cast by this impressive church.

Yesterday we invited my landlady and her boyfriend to lunch. They are a very lovely, groovy pair of 80 year olds. Most of the recipes were experiments but they sort of worked out, especially the main course. This was my attempt to copy the lunch I had in Bonn on Monday at the Deutsche Welle Media Forum I attended.

The entrée was mache leaves, piled with celeri remoulade and carrot rappée, (both from Franprix), topped with toasted pine nuts and lightly cooked sliced mushrooms (that’s it, above).

Since my landlady has requested the recipe of the main plat, I have to write it in French. If anyone wants it in English, you’ll have to write and ask for it!

(Picture below)

600g de filets de saumon

La moitié d’un pot de sauce Napolitana (j’ai utilisé la marque Barilla, achetée à Franprix ; je peux la trouver à Melbourne aussi), avec la même quantité d’eau ajoutée et mele.

Douze petites tomates.

Coupez les filets en assez gros morceaux et mettez-les dans une cocotte pour le four. Couvrez avec la sauce, et mettez aussi les petites tomates dessus.

Mettez la cocotte dans le four (chauffé à180 degrés), et faites cuire pendants 15 minutes. Servez avec du riz.

Bon appetit!

This post by GUEST BLOGGER  Macondo (Andrew McRae)

Today  (Tuesday 15th June), while walking to the Place de la Bastille, Carolyne and I literally stumbled upon the large demonstration by la Force Ouvrière, the largest French workers’ union, against the French government’s plans to raise the pension age and other austerity measures affecting workers and their rights and conditions of retirement. The government was to make its first recommnedations the following day, June 16th.

The large demonstration marched past the Bastille monument and continued along rue de Lyon towards the Gare de Lyon. I don’t know where it finished or where they assembled, but at the end the crowd was addressed by the FO’s leader, Jean-Claude Mailly, as shown on the organisation’s website. The FO estimated the attendance at more than 70,000 but the Police estimated about 25,000. It brought back many memories for me of large demonstrations in Melbourne, especially against the Vietnam war nearly 40 years ago, and in support of Land Rights for Australia’s indigenous people. I remained in the area of the Bastille for 90 minutes, starting well after the march began, and my guess is that the crowd was far in excess of the Police’s estimate.

Demonstrators had come from all over France, mainly manual workers, but covering many different professions. They included metal-workers, agricultural workers, firemen, ambulance staff and police; all age groups and many ethnic groups were involved.

When we returned home several hours later we tried to find some commentary on the demonstration from news websites, but all we found was Le Monde describing it as a wasted effort which caused little disruption. Apparently the internecine disputes between the various labour organisations mean that the resistance to the government’s plans may well be splintered, but after what promises to be a long period of privation for many in Europe the demonstrations might become more populist and widespread, perhaps less peaceful.

I’m writing this on the Toulouse to Paris train, a nearly five-and-a-half-hour journey. France is the only country in which I make long train journeys. In Australia the distances between the major cities are so vast that I usually take a plane.

I adore French trains. The famous fast-speed  TGV (Trains Grands Vitesses) render  journeys between Paris and the major cities a short, pleasant interlude. Even the ordinary trains are relatively fast, and equally comfortable. This route from Toulouse to Paris is via Bordeaux, so ‘ordinary’ speed for the first leg of just over two hours, and grand vitesse from Bordeaux to Paris, a distance twice as far as the first leg, but taking only slightly longer thanks to the much faster speed.

Most of my friends, being enseignants-chercheurs, or at least avid readers, find train journeys very productive, and I agree with them. Where else am I forced to sit at my desk for five hours straight with few distractions? More than that, there is something inspiring about being surrounded on all sides by such an abundance and variety of green: the trees, hedges and rows of crops; but also the farmhouses, villages small and large, clustered around a church spire, the occasional chateau in the distance.

If Sarkozy’s racaille* really do exist, they are not on this train. The loud one-sided phone calls to which I am frequently forced to listen on Anglophone trains are not here either. An announcement at the start asked us to switch our mobile phones to silent, and reminded us there are small sections between compartments where one can speak on the phone, and also recharge laptops. My fellow-travellers speak in low voices to each other, read or sleep. On the first leg, it’s so quiet in here that I hope the tap-tap of my typing does not annoy anyone. Many more people join the train at Bordeaux and the carriage noise settles into a low hum. Even two small children across the aisle from me are relatively quiet, their parents providing distractions and constant ‘shushing’.

So far, in one-and-a-half hours I have read several chapters of a novel, sketched a lecture outline for next semester, and written this blog post. Not a bad morning’s work.

* In 2005 when Sarkozy was the Minister for the Interior, he famously/notoriously referred to the young men who had rioted as ‘racaille’—rabble.